


Let's Never Meet

by archaicGambit



Series: AlphaRose-Collected Drabble/Stories [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Coming Out, F/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archaicGambit/pseuds/archaicGambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The early days of Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider, everyone's favourite blonde bisexual rebels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're a dream I had

**Author's Note:**

> No matter how hard I try, I cannot get away from Alpha!Rose/Dave. Their story is so fascinating and vibrant to me. Also, Let's Never Meet by Bike!For Three is a great post-scratch dave/rose song.
> 
> Not as shippy as some of my other work but know it is a strand in a very shippy tapestry.
> 
> EDIT: originally a one-off, now multiple chapters. May be updated again. We just don't know.

He thinks the first time you meet is across a crowded floor, some “rom-com love at first sight, bullshit.” he says.

  
He says he didn’t think that kind of thing really happened, not to real people. Certainly not to people like him, jaded and cynical.

  
He is right.

  
The first time you meet is carefully, perfectly engineered and orchestrated by you. You cannot risk messing up the first meeting with the boy (man, you suppose, now. Although it seems his maturity could certainly be debated) literally from your dreams. Sure, you are an awful, anxious wreck with an alcohol dependency barely keeping it together in the face of alien invasion, but you are smart. You like to think you know how people work.

  
And you like to play games.

  
_This will be a game. No emotional attachments_ , you tell yourself in the cab on the way to a mixer held by some Warner Brothers executive (They are courting your film rights). You know he will be there, you have seen it briefly, with your limited powers of foresight. He will be wearing a red tuxedo jacket and pajama pants covered in comic sans expletives. Despite yourself, part of you feels as though this stranger is already your friend. You shoo the thought away, and pick a shedded strand of blonde hair from your gauzy lilac dress. 

  
Out of the cab, you tug at the hem of your dress, an inch or so shorter than you are normally comfortable with, and a pencil skirt at that, and so it keeps riding up your thighs. The lavender colour is pretty, though, and a nice break from your usual black. You fumble with money for the driver and sigh.

  
_It’s a game,_ you think. _He is already dead. You have already seen him die in your head a thousand times in a thousand different ways._ You have seen his corpse as a child, an adult, a strange, angel-like creature. The Terrors say he is important, you agree. You are not sure if both parties are implying in the same way.

The party is already crowded by the time you get there, you make a beeline for the bar. You know he isn’t particularly fond of drinking, but at some point or another, he will need some sustenance, surely. The music is louder than you imagined.

Your eyes dart to anyone wearing red, the colour leaping out at you as though all others had been desaturated. You turn down three offers to dance and two drinks from men with polished, fake smiles, just the sort of smile you plan to don when you meet him.

Half an hour passes. You begin to wonder if you’re wrong, but you think you’re also probably a tad overdramatic. You have a harder time staying up later than other people because of the whole HorrorTerrors thing. The night hours are painful.  
And then, there is the moment.

The moment where you spot him across a crowded room.

You catch your breath. It is not that he is handsome or that you have fallen suddenly and deeply for this strange, dead boy turned film director (You can barely see him, really. And you are much too careful with your feelings to allow such frivolity). It is a moment of bliss because someone from your horrible visions is real. You are in the same room as him, and he is breathing, alive. Presumably, happy. The gangly bespectacled boy is a full-grown man, flailing awkwardly on the dance floor.

Unfortunately, you figure that will not last for much longer.

You keep track of him, idly watching middle aged executives creep on young actresses. This whole film world is alien to you. You briefly thank yourself that women dominate publishing. They are easier to communicate with by far. With men, you can never quite be sure of their expectations, or even if they afford you basic respect.

You are unsure exactly when your eyes meet for the first time. He always wears these aviators. You’d say it was a trademark, a gimmick of some sort, but he wore them as a child too, 24/7.

You are sure when he stops to look at you. This is when you turn your back on the dance floor. Wait, and hopes he comes to you. So that he thinks this is organic. So that he does not know you are, at that moment, beginning to falter on the edge of reality.

It’s fifteen minutes later when he finally comes over. You stare into your empty glass, not sure if you ought to acknowledge him.

“Hey! Bartender! Appletini!.” You can hardly hear him above the music- his intonation is odd, as though he’s between accents. You smirk to yourself for a moment, then feel intensely awkward, on the precipice of interaction with this person you might’ve already died with. You cannot help but glance at him again.

“Do I know you?” His brow raises above the frame of his glasses.

“Perhaps.”


	2. What we have is rare indeed and guaranteed to last forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was gonna be a one off but I kept thinking about it so another chapter happened.  
> (I'm posting this in the raw so if there are any glaring or dumb errors please tell me!)

“Perhaps?” He repeats the question, amused. His mannerisms are incredibly subtle, but you can tell that much, that he is amused by your nonchalant manner.

“You may know _of_ me,” You take a sip of your drink, nerves mounting. This man who you have known so long as a dead teenager, the ghost of a friend- he is actually talking to you. “You may have developed some sort of parasocial relationship from following me on the internet, or you may have heard of me in passing; although your hesitation at our familiarity certainly tilts the scales a little more in favor of the latter. Or perhaps, an awkward third scale where you are entirely mistaken.”

“You’re not an actress, are you?” He seems interested in this guessing game, and although you can’t quite tell behind the shades, you can feel his eyes boring into you, sweeping up and down. It takes a lot of effort not to do the same thing, to be honest, but your eyes are not protected by opaque spectacles. 

“I feel I could probably improvise a decent monologue, but no. Was there a tell?”

“Well uh…” He winces for a moment, trying to find his words, “I mean, you don’t look like an actress. Not that you’re not hot or anything… ah, fuck. I mean. Not that you probably couldn’t be if you didn’t want to. Be an actress. Not be hot. Fuck, I- just, let’s backtrack.” He frowns at himself again. It seems he is blurting things out rather than this being some sort of routine or pick-up line, “See, ok there are a lot of actresses in this world so I don’t want you thinking I’m like stereotyping or some shit, but like, the ones that come to these kinda high-end elbow-bumpin’ and well, uh, more than elbows really, for a lot of people with big names. They have a look. And it’s usually not pastel gothic.”

You laugh, then, and he seems relieved when you do. You did not realize he would still be so mumbly, so rambling. That is the most you can remember about the past version of this boy. “Guilty as charged. I am not a thespian by trade.”

“Ok. Hmm, are you some kind of indie producer trying to get funding for like, a steampunk lesbian action flick? You’re gonna have a tough time with the big studios but I think modern audiences are ready for ladies with oversized goggles to shoot shit and make out. I am ready for that pitch if you’ve got a slideshow ready.”

You grace him with a single, “No.” He turns away and sips at his appletini. You wonder if he’s grown bored of you already, if you must supply him with a full rebuttal each time. “You may be familiar with my work, though.” You add, in the hopes of sparking his interest once more.

“So you’re like, a maker. Cool. Me too.” He smiles, a near microscopic motion, but you are quite sure. It is something of a suave, calculated motion, especially in comparison to his little monologue earlier. It is good that he seems to think you do not know who he is. You feel a little odd keeping this particular fact from him. “So like, high end-cinematography? Art Director? I feel like I would know you I’ve met every art director in this city.”

“I’m sure you have.” You look over his shoulder at the clock- it’s at a bad angle for you to read, but you simply don’t want to feel like you’re staring at him. You don’t want to weird him out. “Would you like me to simply disclose my personal information as though this was a normal introduction? A free restart, if you will?” 

He shrugs, “Nah, at this point, that’d be losing. I don’t mean to be insulting you or anything by not knowing who you are but I feel like I need to discover this myself. It’s a personal quest. No cheat codes… I feel like you’re not from round these parts.”

You nod, encouraging.

“Ok. And you do creative stuff… and you think I might know it… uh… wait, do you even know who _I_ am? I’ve just sorta been walking around assuming. Yeah, it sounds pretty narcissistic but, fuck it. I’m on this whole new level, lady. It’s wild. Anyways, we’ll get to your identity before you’re allowed to google me.” He douses the rest of his drink, trying to awkwardly perch on the barstool. He seems so awfully out of place, like he is still a teenage boy in a body and a life he has not quite grown into yet. “Are you a writer? You talk like you could be a writer.”

“Ding.” You tap your fingernails against the glass so it chimes lightly.

“Fuck, you’re not a journalist, right? I thought you skunks had to have your press passes showing-“

“I’m not a journalist. Don’t worry, I’m not here to do the Dave Strider Expose of the year.”

His face lights up, and you realize you’ve let slip that you know him. Fuck. “You _do_ know who I am! Damn, look at you tryin’ to keep your chill around the decadently talented director himself.”

You are flustered for a moment, then raise an eyebrow at him, “ _Decadently_ talented?”

“I was going for some low-key alliteration. Definitely not a poet, then.”

“Excuse you.” You scoff, although it is mostly performance. You don’t think you’ve talked to anyone like this in ages, and it’s fun. “I could wax sonnets with the best of them if I so desired. I could compose one right now-”

“Shut your perfumey trap for a sec, Austen. I’m thinking here,” He stares at you for a moment, “You a novelist?” You reward him with another silly little “Ding,” sound effect. “I’m just gonna let you know I haven’t done that much reading in the past two years that isn’t rewrites of my own scripts. Oh, I bet you’re here with that Warner Brothers guy- what’s his face, the guy who likes trying to wow small-town authors into selling their film rights…”

You raise a brow, “You’re incredibly astute, Mr. Strider. You have not answered your own question as to whether or not you know me yet.”

He nods in faux seriousness, eyeing you again, as though trying to garner more clues you’re your appearance. “Fuck! Are you the creepy wizard chick? The one everyone was surprised was young?! You’re R. Lalonde, aren’t you! I’m afraid I ain’t got a clue what the ‘R’ stands for though.”

You cannot help but grin as the recognition dawns on him. You bite your lip for a moment, to get your face under control. It wouldn't do to seem giddy, though you are, that he ended up mananging to reach a conclusion on his own. You are nervous again, knowing he has at least heard of your book. You want to know if he's read it yet, if he really understands what you're trying to say. Politely, you reach a hand out for him to shake, “It’s Rose. Rose Lalonde. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


	3. Telling each other what we wanna hear, ignore the rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose Lalonde feels her guarded heart border on lukewarm for a rambling idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the recent update, Dave assumed that he and rose didn't meet till they were much older, post-scratch, and I was personally offended. I also forgot to make the overall thing a homestuck skin, so the texts will be pesterchum-fied eventually. Hopefully you should be able to tell who's saying what anyways.

Befriending Dave Strider turns out to be something akin to trying to domesticate one of the deer in the woods surrounding Rainbow Falls. Sure, it might eat out of your hands, it might sit out on the lawn; but any moment it might run, and to the untrained eye, it is difficult to tell which it is thinking of.

Dave Strider is that fragile to you, even beyond the fact that when you look at him you still see the corpse of a teenage boy. That first meeting, you gave him your number, politely rescinded going home with him, “Not tonight,” you told him with a knowing little smirk, a facade for your inner turmoil. You know he is curious about you, but you’re kidding yourself if someone like him could really be attracted to someone like you. Your warped psyche, twisted and mauled into a strange architecture that keeps your visions from crushing you whole, is something you can barely handle. You cannot impart yourself on another human being. Perhaps it is self-imposed, or a result of your orphan status, but you have always seen yourself as something as a burden to others.

You don’t need him to love you, you remind yourself. You just need him to trust you.

He texts you incessantly, streams of consciousness about any random thing. Sometimes the soft buzz of your phone wakes you up at odd times- he is three hours behind you, in LA, but you also think he might just have a bizarre sleep schedule.

‘rose did you know there are types of shrimp with like 16 cones they can see colors we cant even imagine

like how fucked up is that we cant even begin to conceptualize this thing that we don’t understand

like we dont even understand how much we dont understand it

sometimes i feel that way with everything though’

‘rose have you ever seen mash

because for some reason ive been thinking about that show all day

i think as a kid i mightve idolized those guys a little too much

the really slick ones not radar or the fucking nerd they always played pranks on

but i cant remember their names and its like

really disturbing to me that i remember how much these slick talking army doctors meant to me

but i cant remember their names’

These are relatively short musings. He can go on for pages and pages, especially after he convinced you to join this IM site called pesterchum. It’s lucky you don’t have that one linked up with your phone, because those rambles are even longer.

‘rose have you ever realized how hilarious those little guys in airplane saftey guidlines are

ive heard the safety lecture like two hundred fucking times so i dont even listen anymore

but i was flipping through the one on the back of the seat

idk maybe its just my airline but this guy in the life vest

looks way to happy to be in the water

like maybe he just jizzed his pants

he is pleased as goddamn punch

and im just privately cracking up about it and this old lady next to me is staring

look its not your fault grandma

the new generation is redefining art

i probably wouldnt get your lithograph political cartoons

like fuck ive been up for 24 hours let me at least have this’

‘rose ive been thinking

i know youre surprised

wow dave i didnt realize you could think

i thought that was only reserved for stuffy intellectual broads like myself

well hold onto your britches

ok are britches pants

you dont wear pants very much do you

erm could be panties i guess

sorry

you know what scratch that whole thing

im gonna go nap ok

hope you’re doing well’

You don’t always reply, but when you do, it takes half an hour to come up with a decisively witty response. It’s a fun little game, to take apart his ramblings in a handful of lines. You kind of start to look forward to his ramblings, sometimes not checking his messages even when you are there, just so he can complete a thought.

‘rose so you know how ive had this unopened jar of pickles in my apartment for like a year

well i guess technically you don’t since youve never been here

hint nudge

>haha well

anyways

im gonna emasculate myself here but

its because i couldn’t open it

that motherfucker was sealed sword in the stone style

but guess who’s fucking king arthur after all

i mean king fucking arthur

damn ok lets just both pretend to ignore that i said i was fucking a dead british legend

just wipe that from the slate all smooth-like

ok so

I tapped it gently on the ground because thats a thing people do apparently

tried it again

popped that baby right open

it was beautiful

doctor ya aint gotta tell me to push it’s all out in one go the baby pickles are free

a little bit of juice got on me

i guess thats the embryo fluid or whatever

but uh

i was so excited that i opened this fucking jar that i literally ate all of the pickles

all of them

been feeling kinda queasy for the past hour and i keep burping up pickle taste

which is getting kinda gross tbh

so long story short im probably dying and shit

its cool though

im generally satisfied with my life

balled hard yo

share my epic tale rose

work it into one of your little wizard fanfics’

I can’t believe the first thing you thought to compare opening a jar of pickles to was giving birth.

And then described eating your own children, Cronus style.

At least he had a purpose. You just thoughtlessly ate your poor pickle children.

Strider, you are truly a Freudian font, tapped into a well that just keeps giving and fucking giving.

‘you can call me dave you know’

‘Ah, so you’re not dying.’

‘you dont know that’

‘An educated guess, then.’

‘fine i may have embellished for dramatic effect

thats what you do in showbiz jesus fuck rose

have i taught you anything’

‘No.’

‘ok i cant argue with that

but uh

i guess the thing at the heart of my harrowing pickle adventure

is that maybe um

fuck

maybe it would be nice to have another person around to keep me from doing stupid shit every once and awhile’

‘Aren’t you usually surrounded by film crews?’

‘yeah see but the problem is

they’re very polarized

its either

yes dave your a genius dave holy shit of course we need to think about this on a bouncy castle

or

no mr strider we dont have a budget for that

youre a grown man mr strider do you really have to order so many dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets for catering’

‘How many chicken nuggets?’

‘ok it wasnt even that many compared to the minute maid fiasco of 2001

ill tell you about that sometime

what im trying to say is

i think itd be really cool if we uh

met up again

aint gotta be anything formal or labeled or shit i know you like being

literally the most mysterious broad possible

but like

youre welcome in texas or la or whatevers easier’

‘Will there be dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets?’

‘probably’

‘How could a girl refuse?

;) '


	4. Figments of My Imagination and It's Poverty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose contemplates herself as a series of risks.

Despite your fears, you have agreed to meet Dave Strider again. While your friendship has mostly blossomed over text, the idea is painfully appealing to you. There are of course, a few logistical problems.

  * He lives halfway across the country. Any attempt at seeing him would require staying somewhere overnight.

    * eg: there is a high risk you might have one of your Seeing nights, which you are not sure you will ever be ready to share.

  * He is constantly hounded by paparazzi. While your unique situation with photographs buffers you from a level of unwanted attention, it surely cannot protect you from everything.

    * eg: someone is going to think you are fucking. You do not want to think about any possible romantic or sexual feelings you might have for Dave Strider. If it becomes a popular rumor you may have to actually confront those feelings. to him.




And yet, you keep imagine him smiling, breaking his pokerface despite himself, when he sees you again. it is a stupidly childish daydream.

You do not have very many friends. It is an extraordinary effort to let people close to you, a delicate dance to keep them from seeing your trauma, your visions. Usually, it feels more exhausting than it is worth.

This whole deal, going out to try and see him, will probably be more exhausting than it is worth.

But you keep thinking of his stupid goddamn smile.

You try to justify it to yourself. You are still unsure of what exactly he knows about the things you think are going to happen. He has two ‘movies’ under his belt, as well as a weird stand-up (you streamed it on youtube before you met him. He doesn’t have the Ben Stiller shades yet, but wears squared-off raybands instead. He’s young and he comes across as more genuine and angry than in his films.) The films hint at things, that he might be at least a little politically savvy, even if he is unaware that the two of you most likely shared a past life.

Of course you need to further discern what he knows, what he might know, what he is capable of, how far he is willing to go. You convince yourself a trip out would be research, reconnaissance, ally-building. The Gods of The Furthest Ring continue to mention his importance, but beneath all the bullshit shenanigans he seems so mild mannered. You know someday you are probably going to have to ask this man to die for your cause. Knowing that feels like you are asking too much of him with anything else.

But it is so nice to have a friend.

It’s been awhile since you really had anyone you could truly call a friend. Sure, you are friendly with your coworkers. Your assistant is a total sweetheart, but she idolizes you uncomfortably. You’ve had a handful of girlfriends and boyfriends and datemates, but getting close to someone puts such a strain on you. And then, of course, being attracted to clever, insightful people means they inevitably realize that you are hiding things. What are you supposed to say? _“Sometimes at night multidimensional creatures from a great void outside our universe choose to talk to me because they think I can assist them with the prevention of alien invasion and the apocalypse. I have done it before and I know I have done it before because I dream about having a past life all the time. Rose Lalonde didn’t just start off as my pen name. It is my name I know, I feel it in the deepest part of my gut. I am living on borrowed time, I know.”_

Sometimes you wish you could say that to someone. You’ve started fantasizing about saying it to him, and it makes you feel completely pathetic.

Sharing time and laughter while trying to manage Seeing and anxiousness is like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. Usually Alcohol is a solution, trying to dull your senses just enough so that you are coherent but not enough for the HorrorTerrors to commune with you. But unsurprisingly, it brings up other issues.  Even without your proverbial cocktail of mental illnesses and disturbing ability to see multiple timelines of your own life, you imagine you would still be fairly reserved. You were called a know it all and a pretentious brat even before your visions started at 13.

You know what you are doing. Every time you get close to someone, you tell yourself, _This time I can handle my shit. This time will be different._ Most of the time you can't. Being grown up is hard, and nobody understands.

_You really want to see him again._

  
Even if it’s an awful idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short, but 2 people asked for another chapter!! So nice of both of you. The next chapter will be their second meeting.


	5. The Way You Make Me Feel is My Sovereignty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At some point I had to write them arguing about sports.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised another upd8 before the end of the month and here it is. Can't believe homestuck is over! I missed writing these fucking nerds. Sorry it's so short but I'm in the middle of finals.

It’s around three months since your first meeting, when you finally meet Dave Strider again.

 

Your flight is direct from Rochester, NY to Houston, TX. You aren’t recognized in the aeroport, and you like people to think you are some kind of slick business woman, in your trim grey blazer and crisp white blouse. It’s September, and already cooled off in northern New York, but you have no idea what it will be like down in Texas. You haven’t been before, but you did stuff a summer frock and a pair of shorts into your carry-on, just in case. 

 

Sitting in your gate, you wonder if you should’ve brought sunscreen. You know he will make fun of you if you go out to buy it when you arrive. Unfortunately, being in the aeroport alone means having to drag all your shit with you everywhere you go.

 

The flight is uneventful. You try to plow through this YA novel your publishers want you to endorse. The prose is so light, the material so fluffy that it seems to have as little substance as an air mattress, and just as uncomfortable. You are not supposed to say that about this sappy father-son magician story, though. 

He is right there at the arrival gate, dressed-down. He looks a little like he rolled out of the garbage- you’re not sure if it’s a disguise or how he really dresses himself. He’s wearing a navy blue hoodie with a blue and red logo of a bull, skinny jeans, and sneakers that seemed like they’d been worn for two years after they ought to have been thrown away. He’s even forsaking his trademark aviators for the ones you remember from his first youtube clip.

 

He’s holding up a piece of paper “blonde chick, forgot what she looked like.” You have to squint for a moment to read his chicken-scratch handwriting.

 

He beams when he sees you, and quickly stuffs the paper into his hoodie. You have been talking for months on the internet. This is different. You are a little haggard, after your five hour flight, but you are invigorated just by seeing this loser. And he’s still smiling, an honest grin with teeth and all.

 

You don’t really notice the little barrier meant to spread traffic out until you’re right up against it. All the verbosity at your disposal, and you are not sure what to say. You want to reach out to him across the gate, but wonder if you are hugging friends. His hands remained firmly stuffed in his hoodie.

 

“Jesus fuck, Lalonde. It’s been so long since I’ve seen ya I forgot you had a corporeal form.”

You laugh. His joke is almost a little too real for you. “Still trying to trick people into thinking you know about sports?”

 

“What?” He follows your line of vision down to his hoodie, “Oh, yeah. Texas bulls. Go team. Sports. Kick the fucking ball.”

 

“Isn’t your team literally the Houston Texans?”

 

“You come to my goddamn city, and tell me I don’t know my own basketball team.”

 

“Football.”

 

“My point is, lady, that you are a hop-skip-and-a-bounce away from a  _ real  _ southern brawl.”

 

“I’m positively enthralled by your evidently rich culture.” You start to wheel around the stupid glass border. “What constitutes a real southern brawl? Would my participation as a northerner tarry the authenticity?” 

 

“Nah, we love seeing you yanks make a fool of yourselves at yer first rodeo.” His accent is at it’s fullest, and you are quite sure he’s doing it for comedic effect, but it’s also fucking adorable. You try very hard not to laugh, and only let out a tiny splutter.

 

You finally round the gate and are once more met with the urge for contact. There is an awkward silence as you refuse to voice those longings.

 

“Erm, can I carry anything for you? My car’s in like, the second parking lot.”

 

You stiffen, gripping your suitcase for a moment. “It’s fine. You are driving, after all.”

“You sure?” He shrugs, although you can’t help but wonder if you’ve offended him. He cannot know how invasive offers of aid or kindness often feel to you.  “It’ll be awhile and you already dragged all your shit out here.”

 

“I’m sure they’ll be more of those moving walkways.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Those are fucking wild.” He starts to lead you out of the airport. “Can you blame us though? Everything’s bigger in Texas.”

 

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to say that.”

“Well it’s true. I’m sure you’re like, an inch taller but haven’t noticed yet because everything  _ else  _ has also shifted up ever so slightly in scale. So your tiny new yorker ass is still fundamentally microscopic.” 

 

You glare at him, although you’re not really upset, “Can you give my ass a break?”

 

“Still seems like it’s workin’-” He coughs awkwardly, “Yeah. New subject time. We never even said hi.”

 

“Hello.” You smile.

  
“Sorry this is probably weird,” he mumbles, pulling you into a hug. You get a face full of his hoodie, and are too surprised for a moment to reciprocate, gently winding your arms about his middle.


	6. Bad Habits Rose to Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of Rose's visit, and some reckless behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, discussion of alcohol/alcoholism in this one!

__ The first place he drives you is not his apartment, but Chuck E’ Cheese. You haven't been in one since you were about six and you bit your then-foster brother for calling you a witch. 

 

You are fine with Chuck E Cheese, even with all the screaming children, the underspent of piss and vomit associated forthwith, masked by the smell of greasy pizza. The don't serve alcohol, and the longer you have to avoid telling Dave about your drinking troubles, the better. 

 

You play some arcade games, and because there is nothing of interest to you, you use your winning tickets on a shitty t-shirt that you notice Dave smirking at. They only have L’s left, and it's still kind of a dress with his height. 

 

“Everything’s bigger in Texas?”

 

He huffs, “I'll wear it as pajamas. Or y’know. Start an oversized shirt and skinny jeans trend. The goal is to look as much like a Popsicle as possible. We all know the public’s been secretly yearning for it, like a soccer mom who really wants to get kinky.”

 

“Are you confessing to be in tune with the public’s most wanton desires?” You snicker.

 

“Yeah. And their wonton desires too.” He deadpans, “ I know what buns the people want. It's mine.”

 

The two of you get kicked out of the ball pit for being above the age of twelve, you gently try to make the argument that Dave is severely overgrown, and you are but an overworked babysitter endeavoring to impress his parents by being fun. It’s then that another employee approaches with a SBAHJ keychain and says, “Dave, Dave Strider? I heard you were back in Huston!”

 

Dave is surprisingly sheepish about the attention. He seems irritated, “Well, ya know, born n’ raised. S’there anything I can sign before half the city’s storming your fine establishment?”

 

Dave draws a dick on one of their notebooks, signs the other. “Sorry to be curt, but me and the lady are on our way out,” he throws his thumb over his shoulder.

 

They finally register that  _ you’re  _ there again, awash in the glow of Dave’s presence. 

 

“Of course, we hope you and your girlfriend have a nice evening.”

 

You freeze. Should you correct them? Would Dave? Had this been a date? Nothing of a particularly romantic note had transpired between the two of you, besides your own pining.

 

While you’re dying inside, Dave is already putting his shoes back on. “Sorry about that, Can’t go anywhere without the wayward torsos of the prostrate creating a goddamn obstacle course.”

 

“Maybe you ought to learn parkour.” You say offhandedly, feeling the slightest deja vu.

 

~*~

He speeds in a bright red jag with a low ceiling every time the city traffic gives him an opportunity. When you finally reach his apartment, the building is a little more run-down than you expected. “Top floor, hope you like heights.” He takes your luggage out of his trunk while you’re still getting out, which is making your stomach wind up. He needs to stop taking your luggage. 

 

You catch yourself staring at his mirrored reflection in the lift. There’s a long crack that lines up around his neck. You keep imagining blood pouring from the slit, and cannot tear your eyes away.

 

He does not notice your stare, “Ok, so you know how I keep iterating that everything’s bigger in Texas? My apartment is kinda the exception. I wouldn’t call it a shoebox, but maybe like. A boot box. Or a microwave, given the heat. Don’t worry, I got the AC working properly again though. Saw ya melting in our brief forays outside.”

 

He did not overestimate the size of his flat. He insists on you taking his bedroom, that the couch is a futon and he is fine. You think he’s probably too tall for it.

 

All this courtesy makes you quite anxious.

 

“Look Rose,” He says, “ You’re my guest. I know I’m kind of a dick, but I was always gonna let you have the bed. This ain’t negotiable.”

 

The apartment is eerily familiar. The decor is different: lovingly framed posters of legendarily shitty movies, some other posters of lesser know ones. Ads that are misprints, terribly translated signs, “Please do not grow a hand in the fence,” one of them reads (you remember a worrisome amount of puppets for some reason, but you are glad to not have so many plastic faces looming at you.) He has pinned up records and mounted skateboards and assorted weaponry. With anyone else, you would consider this a red flag, a show of immaturity or zealous masculinity. 

 

You drop your things off in his room. A queen sized bed dominates it, a worn quilt too small for the bed is folded at the bottom, with a pattern of card suits. He has a shelf of little fossils and embryos that catches your eyes. It’s real, in the same way the apartment is real, transcendent, a universal constant. You also think it is the one decoration he has an unironic attachment to. You remember being here. You weren’t in Texas, you probably weren’t even on earth- a charred land of clockwork and lava.

 

You think you might’ve kissed here. You also think you probably died. No, he told you to go to sleep. 

 

You died somewhere else, but also didn’t. 

 

This whole past lives thing is difficult to keep track of on the best of days. You duck back out into the living room. He’s already changed into the fucking chuck-e-cheese shirt and some sweat pants. He’s got his trademark aviators back on after wearing the raybands for most of the day. Part of you hoped he’d take them off when you got home. 

 

He holds out a mixed drink as you approach the kitchen, and you take it coolly, although this is a scenario you were nervous about.

 

_ It’s one fucking drink _ , you think. You can be normal for once in your life, and have a nice time.

 

“I uh, I’m really glad you came down here, Rose.” His face stays void of any noticeable expression, he clinks your glass with his and takes a swig. You follow suit silently, reminding yourself to sip. You taste vodka and cider, at once bitter and sweet. The warmth of the alcohol burns down your throat, warming your insides in an achingly familiar lull.

 

You sip your appletini slowly as the two of you discuss ridiculous nothings, riffing off each other into increasingly elaborate and stupid metaphors. This place is so familiar to you, you are worried about sleepwalking and Seeing and wrecking his things.

 

He gets you both water after an hour, then breaks out the doritos (you over-the-top swoon at the offering). Eventually he offers you a beer and you say yes, although you can’t stand the taste. You’re not that buzzed and you’re kind of craving for more, even if it’s bread-piss. Part of your justifies that being hungover and acting a little dumb infront of him is significantly better than writing strange runes on his walls in your sleep, or whatever other strange thing you might do while in commune with the HorrorTerrors.

 

“You up for watching something?”

 

“Sure,” It’s a little pathetic, how desperate you are to soak up his presence.

 

He puts on the original batman tv series and talks through the whole fucking thing, while you offer occasional interjections, mocking his mockings. He’s so engrossed in this ritual that he doesn’t notice you get up for a second bottle, your words getting more slurred, that you haven’t touched the water.

 

You slump into the couch four episodes in and realize it’s his shoulder only after you’re comfortable. He doesn’t say anything or really make a note of it, so you figure he’s ok. You watch the flickering lights of the screen on his face, reflecting off his glasses. You find yourself fixated on the shape of his nose, it’s light dusting of freckles.

 

_ We have kissed here before.  _ You keep thinking,  _ we were alone, frightened children and in danger at the end of the world, but we kissed. It was this apartment. _

 

“Dave,” You say quietly, and he turns towards you.

 

You press your lips to his. It’s a sloppy motion, your noses bump. He kisses back hesitantly, ghosts his hand over your shoulder, but when his hand finally settles there it’s to push you away.

 

He’s not looking at you, but you think he glances at your extra bottles, at your untouched water. 

 

All you can see is your own reflection in his glasses, and you are positively mortified.

“Wow um, Rose… I just wanna check that um, you’re ok,” He takes a deep breath. His tone is incredibly mumbly, and you can hardly hear him over the television. “It just seems like you maybe had a little more than me or maybe you’re just more of a lightweight which is fine, you know. I’m not tryin’ to say you can’t handle yourself...”

 

You cover your mouth, slumping down away from him. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, that was-” You can’t look at him.

 

“You ain’t gotta be sorry...Fuck Rose, It’s just. I don’t want either of us to do something we can’t take back somber? I’ve kind of started relationships in this kinda place before.”

 

You are still dead silent, straining to hear him. He switches off his TV.

 

He winces, “Pulling up right into makeout heights without talking about it hasn’t worked out super well for me. It’s not that I don’t like you or think you’re hot or that kinda stuff this just doesn’t feel right.”

 

You can feel him looking at you, and it’s intolerable. You think he wants to say more, that maybe he’s looked right through you and understands more than you wish he did.

 

“I’m sorry,” You repeat stupidly, stumbling off the couch towards his bedroom alone.

  
“Rose! Fuck.” He speaks up much louder than he has all evening, the nearest you’ve ever heard to him shouting, “We’ll talk tomorrow, ok? Like legit, certified grown-ups. I promise.”


End file.
